


In A Word

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Birthday Sex, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 06:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16634903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank doesn't really celebrate his birthday these days.





	In A Word

There was a certain grim satisfaction to surviving another year, in spite of all the close calls, all the best efforts made to the contrary. 

Frank was willing to go so far as to congratulate himself, his mental tone somewhere uncomfortably between vicious sarcasm and mellow indifference, on his continued survival. Otherwise, he didn’t intend to acknowledge it. 

He went to work, and of course no one knew. No one would have said anything because Pete didn’t socialize and he certainly didn’t give away personal information like when his birthday was. He went to work and he did exactly what was asked of him and then he went home a full eight hours later, sore and tired and ready for a shower.

There’s an envelope stuck to his fridge with a heavy magnet. Frank probably still would have noticed it immediately if it were plain, but it being violently orange helped. 

The card inside has no print on its front, no pun or baiting line for a joke to be delivered on the interior. It’s just a close shot of a pitbull, nose resting on its front paws, looking with doggy sincerity at the viewer. When he opens it, he’s frowning, expecting David to be the kind of asshole who doesn’t just abuse his key privileges to sneak a card into his apartment while he’s at work, but potentially the kind who leaves the sort of cards that sing. 

It doesn’t sing, but it does drop a clipped piece of paper that drifts to the floor, brightly colored. He reaches down and grabs the paper while reading what David’s written on the inside of the card, his chicken-scratch forgivable because Frank had months ago learned to decipher it. 

_ I saw this and thought of you. Let me know if you’re interested. _

Well. At least it wasn’t a ‘happy birthday’. 

The paper that had fallen from the card was a simple, neat leaflet, black ink on a bright yellow stock. The kind of thing tacked up on grocery store billboards and pinned onto windshields in public lots. “Poetry (and Prose) Night” it read, subtitled “OPEN MIC NIGHT”. There was a small bullet list of acceptable material prospective readers might bring, as well as the date and time of the reading, with the logo of some cafe/bar in Mott Haven. 

Tonight. At seven. 

He thinks about it, while he’s in the shower, uncertain if he’s irritated by Lieberman’s boldness or… honestly, he’s not sure what the other option is. All he is sure of is that he  _ should _ be annoyed, when Lieberman knows he doesn’t even acknowledge this as anything more than another day, that he should do something to try and make a thing of it. 

David sounds  _ extremely _ happy when Frank calls him. He sounds pleased with himself in a way that is utterly unsuitable. Frank doesn’t want to smile, but somehow that’s become inevitable when dealing with David.

“I knew you’d like that,” David says by way of hello. He often skips the greeting part of a phone conversation, which Frank supposes can be attributed to the fact that David is awkward in every way that matters. 

He leans back on the couch and keeps his voice as rough as normal, giving no sign of the smile that pulls at his lips. “Which part? The part where you sneak into my place while I’m at work, or the part where you leave me a card I didn’t ask for?”

“You don’t, uh, you don’t really  _ ask _ for birthday cards, Frank,” David says, and he grunts softly, shifting his hold on the phone, trying to hold on to the irritation of David knowing exactly how to get under his skin. He feels as if, eternally now, he’s caught between trying to push this man away and pull him closer. Have him and leave him. Keep him and discard him. “So I figure if I show up by six we could walk there and not have to fuck around with parking.”

“You really wanna walk around South Bronx after dark, Lieberman?”

David, the little shit, has the audacity to laugh. “With you, I don’t think there’s much I have to worry about.”

Frank elects to ignore the way the words rattle around his rib cage, fluttering over his heart. It didn’t matter how gruff he was with David, how much of an arm’s length he kept him at; David saw through him, the fucking analyst thing always at work. It came naturally to him, and while he spent half his time with his foot in his mouth because he said every damn thing that crossed his mind, it was impossible to ever stay angry with him because it always came back around to this, this totally unintentional sweetness. 

“Sarah gonna have a problem with you being out so late?”

“My wife doesn’t set my curfew,” David says easily, “but she said I could sleep over if you don’t have homework.”

A laugh escapes him at that and he can see the pleased little wrinkle that puts around David’s eyes. It’s a ridiculous way of asking if he has plans to go out and shoot someone tonight, but it works. Equally, it’s a ridiculous way of implying how he wants this outing to go. 

Frank has sat in poetry readings before. Some readers are soft spoken and awkward, the microphone an uneasy confessional. Other readers are bolder, more experienced, carefully laying each word with the weight required to give the poem the meaning they feel it should have. He’s enjoyed them, however awkward and out of place he’s felt. That he’s never mentioned an interest in attending one has no bearing on David suggesting this; David has a key to his apartment and has seen the books he cared about enough to buy. David knows he likes poetry, and David likes spending time with him.

Ah, what the fuck.

“Okay. You gonna come up at six, or should I meet you out front?”

“Aw, Frank, you gonna be a gentleman and hold the door for me if I say to meet me out front?”

“Fuck you, Lieberman.” There’s no venom to it, nothing but fondness, and he lets himself smile when David makes a series of kissing sounds at him in retaliation. He closes his phone without saying goodbye and stretches out on the couch to rest a bit before David get here. Might as well take the time to do it now, since his evening has essentially been spoken for.

It’s snowing when David shows up, and he grins at Frank, who is dressed in a sweater with a thick coat over it but otherwise unprepared for the weather. David, on the other hand, is bundled in gloves and a hat and a scarf, his jeans tucked into his boots so the cuffs don’t get wet. Frank refuses to shiver and David pulls a beanie cap out of his pocket, fumbles with it, before pulling it down over Frank’s ears. 

They make easy conversation as they walk, David continually having to pull his hands out of his pockets so he can gesture as he talks, and Frank listens to him go on about some argument he was having with one of Leo’s teachers about Leo reading ahead of the class in the textbook. The teacher had called home to complain about her ‘unsocial habits’ and David had, rightfully in Frank’s opinion, told the man to fuck off.

“I mean, not in those  _ exact _ words, but… how the  _ hell _ if reading ahead supposed to be a bad thing? Like, I know, I know, I’m supposed to  _ slow down  _ and try to see his side, but all he sounds like is one of those pedantic pricks who wants his students to do exactly what he says without any passion or imagination.”

Frank nods along, watching David’s breath puff out in little clouds as he vents. He likes listening to David talk, however much he’ll deny it. And he likes hearing about David’s family.

“Like hell am I gonna let him crush that out of her. Sarah says I need to reel it in dealing with this schmuck and apologize for telling him off so I don’t make it worse for Leo but, like, I’m pretty sure  _ I’m _ not the asshole here.”

“You’re always the asshole, David,” Frank says, but he’s grinning when he says it, and he only laughs when the other man shoulders him.

The cafe is, in a word, cozy. The lights are set up to be low enough to give a sort of intimate air with a focus on the little raised area. No one is sitting in the stool by the microphone yet, but there are plenty of bodies at the tables around the space. David leaves him to pick the table while he goes to pay their cover and get them each a drink. It takes him long enough after Frank sits down that he starts to feel the tickle of anxiety, just before he slides into the seat across from him and places two mugs of coffee on the table.

When the readings start, Frank focuses on the speakers. Several people read original works, mostly bits of prose describing the turning of the season. There’s enough of that that Frank wonders if there were a theme he’d missed on the flyer, but then one wide-eyed kid takes the stool and begins a poem, starting off with quiet sincerity that picks up in volume as he becomes more comfortable, about growing apart from one family and into another. He sits there looking self-conscious as he’s applauded and scurries out of the spotlight as soon as the clapping slows. 

One girl stands before the microphone, grinning, and recites ‘The Jabberwocky’ with such fluidity and passion that Frank joins the cries for an encore. When the man who seems to be in charge -- certainly, he’s the one announcing each reader and their piece -- gives her a nod, she rattles off ‘The White Rabbit’s Evidence’ with as much ease, never stumbling or pausing, and Frank claps for her, grinning. 

It’s almost an hour into the event, Frank finally starting to really relax into the setting, when the host calls David’s name. David gives Frank a brief, almost apologetic look -- he looks like he’s halfway to regretting what he’s about to do already -- and then he’s gone, weaving through the tables to perch on the stool by the mic. 

He reads ‘Variations on the Word Love’, pulling the text out of his pocket and unfolding it, his fingers fidgeting with the edges of the paper while he reads. 

His voice is good. He has a natural rhythm, enough so that Frank wonders if he practiced this, or if this is just the payoff of years reading his kids bedtime stories, of reading to his wife when she was sick. He never looks at Frank while he’s reading, but the intention is clear enough that Frank can feel himself start to blush during the second stanza and ducks his head, focusing on his coffee. 

Perhaps because it is November and people are more concerned with warmth, with the leaves having changed, with the coming snow and holidays; David’s reading stands out among the rest of one of only two love poems shared, and perhaps it stands out to Frank especially because he knows why it was chosen.

When the event is over and people start leaving, Frank leads the way back onto the street. He knows David is waiting for something, some response; he leaves him dangle for a couple blocks, surprised that David manages to keep his mouth shut that long. 

“I stand by what I said earlier,” Frank finally says, keeping his voice low and dark, not looking at David still. “You’re an asshole.”

He waits until David starts to reply, basks, perhaps cruelly, in the worry that comes off the other man in waves, the fear that he’s gone too far, and then he rounds on him, pushing him into the shadows of some boarded-over shop front entrance. 

“ _ You can hold on or let go _ ,” he quotes, and watches David’s eyes in the dark, the way they widen, the questions racing behind them. He pushes David harder against the wall; anyone passing might think he were threatening him, might mistake their tension for violence, and that’s fine. “I’m not letting go.”

Pushing away from David, he shoves his hands in his pockets and resumes the march home. It takes a moment, but soon David is back at his side, and when he glances at him, he’s grinning to himself, a silly, dopey look that Frank associates with the way David looks at his wife. Lost, made stupid by sentiment; it’s strange to think that anyone who knows him in any capacity now could think of him and look like that. 

He  _ does _ hold the door for David when they reach the apartment building, and follows him up stairs. David unlocks the apartment door and Frank lets him pull him inside, dragging the door shut behind him. It’s absurdly easy to drag David back and shove him against the door, kissing him as he slides the deadbolt home.

David is a tactile individual. He might be able to read someone else’s poetry smoothly, but when it comes to speaking his own mind, he’s hardly ever eloquent. It doesn’t stop him from speaking, at length and often about nothing, but when it comes to making his feelings known, he speaks circuitously and vaguely. His touch says more, and the expressions he wears. Frank has learned that he can’t take everything David says at face value, he has to read it in conjunction with action, with expression. 

When David, pushing Frank back against the mattress and kissing at his neck, says softly, his mouth curved into a frown against Frank’s skin, “I meant what I said,” he means,  _ I was afraid to say it any other way _ . He means  _ I want you to know _ and he means  _ I want everyone to know _ . 

Frank understands. They’re men who have had to risk a lot, and love is dangerous, even now. He settles his hands on David’s hips and squeezes, not hard enough to bruise but enough to make David shudder and groan. 

As far as birthday presents go, confirmation that someone can still love him, can still care enough about him to try surprising him, to want to connect on some emotional level… it’s a good gift. 

**Author's Note:**

>  _It's a single  
>  vowel in this metallic  
> silence, a mouth that says  
> O again and again in wonder  
> and pain, a breath, a finger  
> grip on a cliffside. You can  
> hold on or let go. _  
> \-- Variations On the Word Love, By Margaret Atwood


End file.
